


There is a Reason

by SpaceNovak



Category: Original Work
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Mommy Issues, Prose Poem, Verbal Abuse, actually don't read this at all, open letter, this is really dark please don't read if you're in a bad place, venting poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceNovak/pseuds/SpaceNovak
Summary: This is a venting poem of all the shit I've been bottling up and it's directed towards my mother as part of my therapy homework. It's really angry and sad and bitter and I DO NOT RECOMMEND reading this if you're in a bad place.Actually, don't read this at all.





	There is a Reason

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE BE WARNED THAT THIS IS VERY DARK  
> References of suicide, self-harm, sexual assault, rape  
> Lot of cursing

An open letter to the person I call mother:  
I was told by both psychiatrists, and both therapists that I needed to sit down with you and talk to you about everything. There is a reason for my behaviour – past and present – and the only way I have enough courage to tell you why is through a poem that a group of strangers will probably hear before you do. If you ever hear it at all.  
I never wanted us to be like this. I am terrified to tell you this, but you want to know so badly why our relationship is how it is. here is the ugly truth you so desperately want.  
  
There is a reason I never told you anything, why I never let you be part of my life.  
  
There’s a reason why I didn’t come to you when I was 12 and my best friend sexually assaulted me during a sleepover we were having at her house. There’s a reason why I didn’t come to you when I was 15 and my boyfriend raped me at her house, and left me feeling filthy and guilty and shameful and used. There’s a reason I didn’t come to you when it happened again, and again, and again.  
  
Because you make rape jokes and throw the word around like it’s funny or okay, because you blame the victims for not doing anything about the horrible crime committed against them, because you think that it is so easy to ask for help, to report being violated like that, because you argued with me over rape statistics and threw “well you’ve never been raped, have you” in my face like a trump card when “YES, I HAVE” is clawing at my throat and I am trying not to break down because I still feel her hands on my body when I didn’t say she could touch me, because I can still remember being scared and unable to move and not being able to speak, because I remember how she took what she wanted and left me in her bed shaking and nauseous, because I remember her later on grabbing my hand and putting it down her pants and forcing me to do things I was not ready to do and never asking me if it was okay.  
  
Because when I finally told you, 4 years later, you told me that I should have said stop, that it was normal for 15 year olds to start sexually exploring themselves, that my boyfriend wasn’t wrong for what she did. That it was my fault it happened, that I need to get over it. Because you did easily, so why can’t I?  
  
There’s a reason I didn’t come to you when I was tearing myself apart, creating more scar tissue than skin on my thighs and legs. There’s a reason that I didn’t come to you when I was breaking down and struggling.  
  
Because when you saw the cuts on my shoulder you screamed and lectured me and then grounded me instead of seeing it as a warning sign and fucking listening to me. Because you called me dramatic and trying to get attention and be cool for cutting myself. Because when I said that I thought I needed to be medicated you accused me of wanting to become a junkie. Because I lived seven years of being trapped in my own head with nobody there to help me, with nobody there to listen to me, with nobody but that voice in my head that wanted me to die. Because you called my lack of mental health puberty and hormones and never bothered to listen when I told you that it started before puberty began, that nine-year-old me was wanting to kill myself. Because it took a screaming match and you slapping me across the face and me having a full-on mental breakdown for you to finally agree that I needed help.  
  
There is a reason why I didn’t come to you when I was suicidal, when I first tried to kill myself the May of 8th grade. There’s a reason why I didn’t come to you the second time, or the third, or the fourth, or the fifth, or the sixth.  
  
Because I was nine years old when I realized I wanted to die, and the first time I tried to tell you, you grabbed me up by my hair and yelled at me to never say that again. Because the second time I didn’t tell you; you were told by my little brother and you yelled at me again and called me ungrateful and grounded me instead of taking me seriously and trying to help me. Because when you found out about my first attempt you called me a liar and didn’t believe me. There is a reason why you got a phone call in the early morning one day from one of my friends begging you to check on me. That was number six.  
  
Because at the age of twenty, you tried to fucking tell me that I never had anxiety when I was a kid, that I never had depression, that nothing was ever wrong with me when I was young, that all of this started when I hit puberty, and fucking yelled at me when I told you that you were WRONG. Because you still think you know me like “the back of your hand” and you won’t admit that you don’t know me at all.  
  
There is a reason why I didn’t come to you when I figured out that I liked girls, when I realized I was trans, when I realized I was ace. There’s a reason why I never talked to you about my relationships, why I never told you about my crushes, why I never shared my personal relationships with you.  
  
Because the first time I tried to tell you that I liked girls, I got a 2 ½ hour lecture where you tried to disgust me with the idea of sex with female bodies in an attempt to make me straight, because you said I was too young to know my sexuality.  
  
Because the first time I tried to tell you I was trans you told me that I was making shit up and that I wasn’t trans and I was just trying to be what I saw on the internet, trying to get attention. Because when I told you again, you told me I wasn’t trans and dug to find some medical condition that could explain away my gender dysphoria. Because when I asked you to call me Salem, you refused; because when I asked you to stop calling me a girl, you refused; because when I asked you to call me your child, not your daughter or your son, you refused; because when I asked you to respect who I am as a person, you fucking refused.  
  
Because when I told you that I was asexual you demanded that I get labs done because I was broken, because I had to have something wrong with me to not be interested in sex, because I couldn’t just be like this. Because when Ethan told you the same fucking thing you said “that’s fine, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just how he is.” Because it was wrong when it was me but not when it was him. Because you are transphobic and homophobic and biphobic and acephobic and you never listen to a goddamn thing that comes out of my mouth even when I know more about a topic than you do. Because you are always right and I am an idiot because I am young and haven’t lived life fully yet.  
  
Because you judge every damn person you meet, because you always have something negative to say about the people I associate with, because nobody is ever really good enough for you, are they? Because I was never enough for you, because you aren’t even enough for yourself, so how could the people I love be, how could I be?  
  
There’s a reason why I never talked to you, why I hid away in my “cage of a room,” why I am so angry with you, why our relationship is so damaged.  
  
Because for years I was so sick in the head that I was planning my suicide doing chores, because I would have flashbacks of being screamed at until I cried, and then yelled at for crying while doing the dishes. Because trying to tell you that it was YOU that did this was like just like I was talking to a brick wall that could scream. Because a simple “oh shit, I’m sorry” never crossed your mind. Because you couldn’t just swallow your fucking pride and admit that you were wrong, even if you didn’t believe it. Because you think you’re perfect and nothing you do can be questioned. Because you’re the one whose causing everyone to leave you, and you are already blaming everybody but yourself.  
  
Because you taught me that I was broken, because you told me that I couldn’t do anything right, because you taught me that I didn’t matter, because you taught me to be afraid of you, because you taught me that I wasn’t acceptable as a person, because you taught me that who I was wasn’t allowed, because you taught me that I was shameful, because you told me that I was never good enough, because you told me I was worthless, because you taught me that I only ever did wrong in your eyes, because you made me fucking hate myself for everything I was, everything I am. Because all I ever wanted to hear you say was “I’m proud of you” and it took 19 years for you to say that to me and you didn’t even fucking mean it. Because all I ever wanted was to be believed in and I never found that in you.  
  
Because hiding in that room was safe from feeling worthless, because hiding in that room was the only safe place I had to be myself, because hiding in that room I didn’t have to be okay, because I didn’t have to be what you wanted, because I was allowed to hurt, because I was allowed to be myself, because I was allowed to be safe from being yelled at, because I was able to get away from the constant reminder that I was never going to be my brother, that I was never going to be good enough, because I was free. That room was never a cage; it was my key.  
  
There’s always been a reason why we aren’t close. There’s always been a reason why I can’t handle being near you for extended periods of time. There’s always been a reason why I am distant. There’s a reason why I fucking hate the goddamn sight of you.  
  
You just never wanted to listen.


End file.
